The Guest and Onion Soup

Yesterday some pointless stubbornness kicked in, so I gritted my teeth and played a match all the way to the end. When it finished, only five Red Guards were left standing.

Too harsh. How is this not fun? Countless mysteries, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠natural wonders, and so many countries each with their own flavor. Set the terrain to a real-Earth map and you get alternate history in one sitting. If this isn't a god-tier game, what is?

But rewatching yesterday's stream… it was quieter than a temple. Sorry about that.

My five-person suicide squad. I'll remember you! I should whip something up and send it to those Red Guards who worked so hard hauling logs for me.

"Haaawn. I'm exhausted. Hungry too. Getting old means you might as well die. Ugh."

Back in my teens I could stay up all night playing and be fine, but once the first digit of my age flipped, my body felt like it had completely fallen apart.

My stomach was growling for food. The clock pointed to eleven.

I'd boiled stock and, still unsatisfied, played one more match—and ended up pulling an all-nighter. Truly a super god-tier game!

Staying up all night only made ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠me hungrier. Looking at my state, I was going to eat and crash immediately, so I needed something suitable.

I looked around for a moment and my eyes landed on a pot.

"I really must be tired. It's sitting right there in the open."

I'd worked hard boiling it; not eating it would be a crime against life itself. Menu decided.

It takes a while, so better get up and start. I was so tired I could die.

Today's menu: onion soup. Ingredients needed: butter, onions, one cup of white stock, and a splash of white wine.

I thinly sliced the onions.

I heated a pan over low heat and melted the butter. As heat hit it and it melted, that distinctive butter aroma tickled my nose.

In went the sliced onions, plus a pinch of salt. Heat stayed low.

You don't stir-fry onions over high heat; in professional terms, you suer them. It's French for "to make them sweat"—cooking over low heat without letting them take on color.

I remembered a senior who would curse me out the moment the color changed even a little when I was a beginner.

Funny thing was, he browned them himself. Bastard.

Cursing him out in my head, I stirred now and then so nothing burned, and soon the onions released their moisture with a soft sizzle.

From here on, to drive off all the moisture and cook the onions evenly, I had to keep stirring. Less moisture meant a higher risk of burning.

It was an incredibly tedious, annoying job, but you make sacrifices for flavor.

As the onions cooked, a sweet aroma mixed with the butter rose up.

Breathing it in while stirring like a machine, I eventually saw that all the moisture was gone and the onions had shrunk quite a bit in volume.

Now it was time for caramelization. Easier than driving off the moisture, but still hands-on work.

I was getting hungrier, so I turned the heat up a little. Normally you'd keep it low for a long time, but let's use a shortcut.

I spread them out evenly, then left them alone for two to three minutes. When a decent fond formed on the bottom, I added a little water and deglazed.

Cooking while adding water lets you work over higher heat without burning, getting even, faster results.

I repeated the process until I hit the color I wanted. The deeper the color, the more the onions' sweet fragrance filled the air.

When caramelization was almost done, I added ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a bit more butter. If you're using commercial chicken stock or a quickly boiled broth, this is where you add a little flour and cook it out.

If you like a thin soup you can skip it, but if you want a little body, don't forget.

But using commercial stock after all that onion work felt wasteful. I'd spent nearly an hour just on the onions. Of course commercial still tastes fine.

Once the extra butter and onions were well mixed, it was time for the final deglaze. To cut the excessive sweetness, I used white wine.

The acidity of the white wine would balance the onions' sweetness and lock in the flavor equilibrium.

But too much of a good thing becomes poison. If the acidity sticks out, the balance breaks, so I reduced it moderately to dial the acid back.

Then the white stock—chicken stock, I suppose—one cup for a single serving. I put the lid on and brought it to a gentle boil.

As the chicken stock simmered, it layered onto the aroma. Even with the lid closed, an overwhelming fragrance leaked out.

My mouth watered.

"Well, that needs to cook a bit longer, so maybe I'll make some croutons."

Did I have bread in the freezer? After rummaging, I found a pitiful loaf stuck in the corner. Lucky.

"Onion soup without croutons is a crime."

The question wasn't whether to eat them, but whether to put them in the soup or eat them separately. Each had its own charm, so it was always a hard choice.

Still, today felt like a day for casually scooping with a spoon. Decision made.

I diced them to about the size of chicken nuggets. Butter in the pan, heat on low. High heat and the outside of the bread could burn before it browned.

The moment the butter melted, I dumped in all the cut bread and tossed it.

First bombardment: the sizzle.

Then the smell of toasting bread mixed with the soup aroma for a second assault.

But knowing there was still one step left made me sad.

I set the finished croutons on a paper towel to drain excess oil.

I lifted the lid to check—the soup was done too.

I finished the seasoning with salt and pepper, pulled out a soup bowl, and poured every last drop of the onion soup from the pot into it.

My stomach was screaming to eat it now.

Wait, belly. One more step left.

I piled the croutons I'd toasted earlier on top.

And for the finishing touch? I grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese into a generous mound.

As I grated, I watched yellow snow pile up over the croutons.

It felt like ruthlessly defiling a white milk shaved ice with yellow condensed milk.

Hunger really makes you think the weirdest things.

I grated until you couldn't see the bottom, then straight into the oven. Just long enough for the cheese to take on color.

I was unconsciously bouncing my leg. It was already peak lunch hour.

My stomach's growls and the oven's hum formed a duet. Being able to see the soup inside the oven only made it worse.

To forget the hunger for a moment, I opened Nertube.

Maybe look up some of Haeun's videos.

They say even brushing sleeves is fate, so on a whim I searched her up.

Mostly game videos. She played all kinds without discrimination. The odd one out was a mukbang video?

Not that the mukbang itself was odd—having it sit alongside all those game videos just felt a little unfamiliar.

Curiosity made me click.

She wasn't the type who demolished enormous amounts. It was more of a vlog-style video of someone enjoying delicious food.

Watching it, she seemed to like food not just as much as other people, but way more.

Staring blankly at Haeun eating only made me hungrier.

Weirdly, mukbang videos hit harder when you're already starving.

I was so hungry I could die.

Ding.

"Yes!"

At the sound I scrambled up like a dog whose owner just came home and rushed to the oven.

I pulled the bowl out, set it back on a plate, sprinkled a little parsley, and finished the plating.

Violent visuals.

The cheese had taken on a deep yellow, with patches of brown here and there. The edges were properly browned; just looking at them, you could already predict the texture.

I tapped it with a spoon—solid. Imagining the mouthfeel already felt ecstatic.

"Well then, dig in."

The moment I went to stir the soup with my spoon—

Ding-a-ling.

At the bell I turned and found a young woman standing there.

Who is that? No one was scheduled to come today. But she looks somehow familiar…

"Hello. Is this Jian's restaurant?"

"Yes. Hello. It is, but how did you…?"

A fairly tall woman stood in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the doorway. Almost my height, with a bob cut.

What stood out most was her pretty face. Soft, round features—exactly the kind people call puppy-like.

But why did she feel so familiar?

I was still trying to place her when she answered for me.

"You told me to come yesterday. Was that just empty talk? Should I leave again?"

I told her to come yesterday? Me?

After a short think, it hit me.

"Haeun?"

"That's right. You got it immediately?"

Well, you're the only person I've given the shop address to recently, and I was just watching you on Nertube, I only thought.

Haeun covered her mouth with her hand and laughed.

It didn't match the image I'd had at all. Same face, sure, but on stream she gave off easygoing big-sis vibes; the way she spoke now made her sound like a proper young lady from a good family.

And the fact that she was standing here meant yesterday's "I'll think about it" hadn't been a Korean-style empty promise?

What insane initiative. I was the one who told her to come, but showing up at the shop the very next day…

Don't tell me I gave my address to a weirdo?

Onion soup illustration! (made with gpt!)